Mahogany L. Browne - Vinyl Moon

I walk into the office with the glass door covered by brightly colored flyers about the next PTA meeting, the importance of recycling, and something about an open mic night. I am a little surprised there is no bell to signal my arrival, but when the door recoils with a loud prison-door thud, I realize that is the signal itself. I sit in the first empty chair I see. The room is quartered off by a long plank of buffed wood, and there are metal baskets lined up against the wall with last names in front of them. Bernette, Chambers, Elliot, FrederickI am reading the names silently when a brown-skinned woman with a yellow-printed headwrap and glasses latched to a golden chain around her neck walks into the office, where more mailboxes line the wall next to a vase of sunflowers that look back at me. Golden globes of light, MomI mean, Elena used to call them. They were her favorite.

My back and arm begin to ache. I blame these stupid chairs. You know the ones with wooden seats and cushioned backs? Like, who does that? Who wants to sit on something that looks like I promise to hurt your ass, but your back is going to be nice and comfy! I feel like its a form of punishment, these chairs from medieval times. The woman with the African-print kaftan and headwrap looks me up and down and smiles.

You must be Angel. Its so good to meet you! Im Mrs. Barton. Im the assistant to Principal Stern. You want some tea? Mrs. Barton opens the cupboard, and it closes so quick I almost confuse it with the loud spring of the front office door.

Hi, Mrs. Barton. I stand up slowly, reaching out to shake her hand with my left hand, the one hand that is still swollen but is not in the shoulder sling. She grabs my hand with both of hers lightly and squeezes. No, Im not thirsty, I say. Thank you.

You can call me Mrs. B. Im so glad you made it! Weve been waiting for you, she says, and it almost sounds like a song. Let me know if you need anything, okay? Ive got your class schedule here. Your temporary student ID. She walks back to a stack of papers and grabs a pale-yellow folder. I thought we could wait a bit for the pictures. Is next week okay? She eyes the bruise gleaming like a lightning strike near my right eye.

I nod slowly. She must think its my fault too. Thats the way guilt spreads. It makes me think about the little things again and again. It makes me slip around in my brain for hours, wondering if I did things this way or that way, maybe, just maybe, I wouldnt have messed my life up.